


On The Battlefields of Virginia

by dismiss_your_fearsx



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: First Meetings, Friendship, I am not a historian so pls just ignore any errors lol, M/M, TV show canon only
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 06:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17381168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismiss_your_fearsx/pseuds/dismiss_your_fearsx
Summary: A young, wounded Ross finds himself awake at last, and finds that he has a new comrade.





	On The Battlefields of Virginia

**Author's Note:**

> My version of how Ross and Dwight came to meet, according to tv show canon. I hope you like it!

“Captain Poldark? Can you hear me, Sir?” 

This voice - a man’s voice, an unfamiliar man’s voice - swirled around Ross’ head as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Through the slits of his heavy eyelids, he could make out the blurry, woozy, outline of a bloodied white shirt next to him, and a dark window behind the shirt, before exhaustion claimed him. 

When he next awoke, he found his vision clearer, his senses altogether more alert: the gentle breeze on his face; the smell of damp grass; the feel of soft yet scratchy linen; the scent of blood. 

“Ah,” a satisfied voice commented. “Captain Poldark, you are awake at last. We feared the worst.”

Ross turned his head to the left and was greeted by a pair of kind, blue eyes. He looked about the undecorated room, dozens of beds filled with men around him. “Where am I?” he asked hoarsely - his throat dry from days of unspoken words and dull with pain. 

The man, a physician, Ross assumed - or perhaps merely a volunteer, given the freshness of youth still present on his features - handed him a cup of water. 

Ross initially struggled to bend his fingers to grab it but drank greedily from it as he brought it to his cracked lips. 

The young physician smiled at the action. “You are in a field hospital,” he informed Ross. “Just east of a town called Williamsburg, next to the river.”

Ross took in this information for a moment, and noted from the open window to his left he could hear the faint sound of rushing water. A wave of homesickness washed over him. He licked his lips, his tongue noting every ridge, every small tear. “What am I doing here?” 

The doctor bit his lip in hesitation before he answered: “You were shot - in the head. You are fortunate to be alive. You have been in a state of semi-consciousness for about six days.” 

Ah yes, he remembered now. The pop of the gunpowder. The game of blood-soaked blackjack. The sound of her laughter as the world went dark.   
Ross frowned and lifted a heavy hand to the now-apparent throbbing on the side of his head. “And the war? Is all lost?”

His question was met with a nod. "Yes. The Americans have sieged Yorktown. We have surrendered." The surgeon then scoffed: “But you know as well as I that all real hope was lost a long time ago.” 

"Is there ever any hope in war?" Ross muttered bitterly. He contemplated this statement for a moment, and for some reason asked the man facing him: “Why did you come? Why are you still here?” His tone was not one of accusation, but rather genuine interest. 

The young doctor shrugged his shoulders lightly. "The army was short of surgeons, and so allowed training-physicians such as myself to practice and perfect our skills. My superiors thought it a good opportunity to gain some hands-on experience, and recommended that a few students travel to aid the war effort." He then stared down at his bloodstained hands and absently wondered if they might always be tinted pink. “And what an experience...,” he mumbled quietly. 

Both men were silent for a moment, contemplating the destruction the last year of war had brought. The doctor then cleared his throat a tad awkwardly. “Um, would you mind if I-?” He asked, motioning to the bandages on the young captain’s head. 

“By all means,” Ross replied smoothly, tilting his head to the side so the doctor could examine the bandages with greater ease. 

The medic stood up from his stool and leaned over him, gently peeled away the first layer of bloodied gauze. Ross tried not to wince as the bandages pulled at his raw, healing skin. The young physician hummed in approval as he lightly pressed around the wound, pleased there was no indication of gangrene. “You are very lucky, Captain Poldark," he commented with a small smile. "Had that bullet been half an inch to the left, you would have lost your eye.”

Ross flashed a grin at this. “A shame. A lost eye would have added to my heroic image, do you not think?” he asked with a chuckle, a smile slowly spreading over his face. 

“Hmm,” the other man considered as he placed a fresh bandage over the large stitch. “I should think a scar half the length of your face ought to be proof enough,” he replied with a smirk. After a moment he continued: “What made you sign on, Captain Poldark? That is - if you don’t mind me asking.” 

“In truth, to escape the gallows,” Ross answered. This revelation was met with very raised eyebrows. “And...,” he continued, rather hesitant to admit it, “I rather hoped my regimentals would impress a girl.” He was not sure why he was telling this stranger this, especially when he would not even admit the fact to Francis or Verity when they'd asked. 

A wicked smile stretched across the young doctor’s face. “Oh?” he queried, his interest piqued. “And who is this girl? A rich and beautiful heiress perhaps? Or a pretty, honest miner’s daughter?” 

Ross chuckled at the mere thought of Elizabeth in any other role than the one which had been predestined for her. “She is certainly no miner’s daughter!” He told the surgeon with a degree of pride. “Though she is honest,” he added with a half-smile. “But one could not say she is an heiress... but at any rate, she is well-bred and beautiful. Her name is Elizabeth.” Ross absently fingered the silver ring which clung to his pinky. To him, this ring was more than a love token; it had become somewhat of a good luck charm - a symbol, even, of what would surely be an enduring love. He truly believed it was what had kept him alive over the past year. 

Just as the young surgeon opened his mouth to inquire more about this mysterious gentlewoman, the cries of wounded men were heard approaching the house. “I’d best be going,” he excused, instinctively pulling up his stained sleeves. “I expect we'll all be going soon - home, that is," he added. "I shall examine your wound again later if I have time, Captain Poldark.” He offered the wounded soldier a kind smile before moving to depart. 

Just as he made to stand from the rickety, wooden stool next to the bed, Ross grabbed at his wrist. “Could you please find the man who patched me up? I should like to thank him,” Ross said sincerely. 

A blush came over the young doctor’s face, and he scratched the back of his head. “You are looking at him,” he said sheepishly.

Ross’ eyes widened slightly, and a gentle smirk tugged on the corner of his lips. “So, it is you I have to thank for saving my life!” he exclaimed in surprise, having expected such a large stitch to have been done by a much more experienced physician. 

“Well, I saved your good looks at any rate,” the surgeon chirped modestly. 

Ross barked a laugh, the morning sunlight now streaming in the window opposite his bed and warming his face. “Then I am even more indebted to you, Dr...?” 

“Enys,” he replied. “Dwight Enys.” He extended his hand. 

Ross took it and shook it firmly. “Ross Vennor Poldark,” he stated. “Hm,” he then said, narrowing his eyes in contemplation. “You have a peculiar last name. My father knew of an Enys family from Gunwalloe, in Cornwall, are you a relation?” 

Dr Enys’ pale blue eyes became round. “The very same. My parents and brother died of the fever when I was young, so I’ve lived in London most of my life. Are you also a Cornishman?” 

“Yes!” Ross exclaimed, enthused to be among his own kind. “My family are of the Trenwith Poldarks.” 

Dwight gave a low whistle, the family name a familiar one. “Impressive. Though perhaps they would not approve of your mixing ranks with such an impoverished name and station as mine?” He teased with a snicker. Behind them, a group of bloodied soldiers were ushered in, all groaning in varying degrees of pain. 

Ross lightly rolled his eyes, and his mouth twisted devilishly, the prime indication of his self-berating sense of humour. “My father is rather a Jacobean, and I, personally, have never had much time for formalities. Do call me Ross.” 

“Well, then, please call me Dwight. I insist.” Dwight smiled briefly, before starting at a shout of his professional name from behind him. He cursed under his breath. “I am afraid I really must go,” he excused. “And you must rest. I will endeavour to see to your wound again later, Cap- Ross. Perhaps you can tell me more about this girl you are so keen on?”

A warm feeling of camaraderie washed over Ross that he had not felt with his fellow soldiers, and he extended his hand in thanks once again. “Until we meet again, my friend.”


End file.
